Metaphorical blood

The dental hygienist made a right mess of my mouth today. She's a crafty one, that one, and always tries to sell you stuff whilst you're incapable of speaking ‘cause she’s brandishing a dangerous-looking mirror. I almost signed up for teeth whitening today as a result of her wily ways!

She went in armed with an assortment of medieval torture implements which she jammed, scraped, drilled and bored into my gums. The resulting bleeding, which felt like a haemorrhage, was put down to my not flossing often enough.

...No love, you've just jammed an enormous metal pointy spike into my gob!

I went to the osteopath first thing and had to deal with a most horrific tube journey into central London. For almost an hour, I found myself crammed between an armpit and a chin. The tube smelt of bad breath and BO and seemed to grind to a halt in every tunnel. I felt like chicken in a piece of cling film.

I returned, aching a little, and found Nathan spitting metaphorical blood at the telly. Phil and Holly were interviewing some grotesque homophobe who was spouting bile about the corrupting influence of homosexuals and the fact that gay marriage should not be "taught" in schools. I'm not quite sure what teaching gay marriage would entail, but if he’s suggesting that any mention of gay marriage should be suppressed by teachers, then we're sailing dangerously close to the bad old days of Clause 28.

The lovely Holly, I'm pleased to say, made her contempt for the man very plain, and lost all objectivity as an interviewer by holding her head in her hands whilst he was speaking and confessing to being horrified by the results of the ensuing phone poll. 40% of This Morning viewers apparently believe gay marriage shouldn't be discussed in schools. Some grim woman then emailed the programme with that old familiar phrase that has haunted me throughout my life, “I’ve nothing against the gays... but...” Her particular worry was for her impressionable 7 year-old daughter. Frankly, if she’s more worried about her daughter becoming a lesbian than she is about her getting involved in a gang, she only has herself to blame if she completely goes off the boil!
It’s worth pointing out that the This Morning audience of pensioners, housewives, lazy students and the long-term unemployed is ever likely to yield a higher than average percentage of bigots and homophobes, but the poll was a sobering indication that the war for true equality has not yet been won.

A cloud of steam

I woke up this morning with back ache yet again. I’m hoping that my follow-up appointment with the osteopath tomorrow will nip that particular problem in the bud because it's nudging into the zone of slightly worrying.

I’m feeling rather listless and dissatisfied at the moment. We’re half way through January and I feel as though I haven’t really achieved anything. I’ve sent a few pitches out. I’ve read a number of books about The Thames. I’ve had meetings with a few people, but I have nothing tangible to show for the first 16 days of the year. Because I’m not being active enough, the days are rather flitting away. I feel like I’m vanishing in a cloud of steam.

There’s nothing else to report, really. I spent the entire day reading what turned out to be the most intensely boring book about the River Thames ever written. Essentially, it was an in-depth essay about the docklands with a yard-by-yard account of every single warehouse which had lined the river in 1934. Dry as toast, and yet I persisted.

Cas the rat is ill again. The poor tyke is bleeding from his tumour and we’ve decided to risk the operation to have it removed. Essentially, he’s unlikely to wake up from the anaesthetic, but at the same time unlikely to live for much longer with the tumour growing on a daily basis. Having been through the trauma of Poll the rat being euthanized with an injection which hurt him and made his last moments a hideous panic, we’ve decided we’d rather Cas died in an operation, which will afford him the luxury of having his anaesthetic administered by gas in a special tank. He’s a strong lad. He may just survive.

On that note, I shall return to my cloud of steam. With any luck there’ll be more to report tomorrow!

A game of chance

At Euston Station today, I was deeply alarmed, not just by the man who sat next to me on a bench (with the weirdest excrescence on his forehead), but by the enigmatic tannoy announcement that echoed through the building; “Code 4 in the ticket hall area... Code 4 in the ticket hall area.” The woman made the announcement in a monotone voice. Everything felt just a little bit “1984.” What is code 4? A fire? A strange person? Fortunately the train pulled into the platform before I was forced to find out!

We had codes when I worked at the New Ambassador’s theatre. Mr Sloane meant there was a fire, and that all the ushers had to rush to the emergency exits shouting “this way out please ladies and gentlemen...” Mr Magpie indicated that there was a strange package in the building, and Mr Dudley were the words we said quietly but firmly if a person started acting strangely. I once had to announce on a walkie-talkie that Mr Dudley was in the building after stumbling upon someone in the gentlemen’s loo more than thirty minutes after the last audience members had left the building. The man claimed to have become disorientated when all the lights went out in the building. I remember thinking that it was all too clear he’d been hiding out so that he could nick stuff from inside the building after the theatre had closed, but there was nothing we could do to prove this particular fact, so he was merely escorted onto the street.

I think the most common codeword for fire is Mr Sands, which is why, on one occasion, whilst I was at Bank station, not long after 7/7, I became almost apoplectic when the tannoy system decreed that “Mr Sands was in the ticket hall.” I think there was then an announcement to say that everybody needed to evacuate the station and immediately I seemed to be heading in the opposite direction to everyone else, following signs for the Monument exit. In my panic, I started to imagine smoke, before starting to run, and suddenly I understood how terrifying it must have been for the poor people who got caught up in the King’s Cross disaster, who apparently ran in circles looking for a way out. I’m told it’s human instinct to lose one’s bearings in times of crisis.

This of course reminds me of the news story today of the poor woman, stuck in the block of flats in Camberwell that caught fire, who called the emergency services to ask whether she should try and get out, but was told to stay put and cover the door with a towel. She stayed on the phone to the 999 operator for the best part of an hour whilst the fire slowly crept up through the building. First there was smoke coming through her floorboards, and then she announced that everything was turning yellow. Then she lost consciousness. It’s one of those 911-style stories, with terrifying levels of detail, which make us feel both helpless and incredibly sad. I can’t understand why no-one monitoring the fire in the hour that she was speaking to the emergency services was able to tell her to evacuate to a higher floor – or indicate a safe escape route...  Those who ignored the emergency services' advice and exited the building all lived.

Life certainly is a massive game of chance.

Click

I went to see an osteopath today; more specifically I went to the British School of Osteopathy, where you get treated by 4^th year students, but pay ridiculously small sums for the experience; about 20 quid for a session. It’s well worth it.

My student osteopath was called Barry, and he was brilliant. Maybe all osteopaths are brilliant – I’ve nothing really to compare him to – but he very quickly seemed to work out what was wrong. There’s an area of my spine which has apparently been frozen for some time, with the vertebrae above and below working overtime to compensate.

He prodded and poked for a while, and tapped my spine, which was apparently hollow-sounding in the affected area. He asked me to lie on the bed, wrapped his arms around mine and suddenly and very sharply twisted. Clllllick. The sound was like a machine gun. I immediately burst into peels of hysterical laughter. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed that much. It was the shock, I suppose, and the ridiculous noise, because it didn’t hurt in the slightest. Apparently many people either laugh or cry when they get “popped.” It triggers a nerve which goes direct to the brain and screams, “react! React!”

I’m apparently to expect some soreness at some point and a lot of stiffness in the morning, but I’m excited to see what difference it’s made.

On the 9^th January 1663, Pepys got into a pretty major row with Elizabeth, triggered by the news that their ex-servant, Sarah, was spreading gossip about the Pepyses around London. Elizabeth broke down in tears and said that she’d been telling servants her deepest secrets because she'd no one else to talk to, poor lamb. Pepys was initially sympathetic, until Elizabeth pulled out a letter (written in English) which basically outlined all Pepys’ faults whilst declaring how miserable she’d become. She’d written the letter some time ago, but thought better of sending it.

Pepys was incensed that she’d effectively written a document which could have turned him into a laughing stock if it made its way into the wrong hands. He tore the letter up whilst Elizabeth pleaded with him. He then went into her secret chest and tore up every single letter and document she’d kept over the years; the tokens of love, the little poems, and the letters he’d written to her whilst at sea. All were ripped up in front of her, and then burnt in a display of unacceptable cruelty. The only things he couldn’t bring himself to destroy were the marriage certificates and the very first love letter he’d sent to her.

All was well again by the 13^th January, when Elizabeth and Pepys hosted a pretty mega dinner party with “oysters, a hash of rabbits, a lamb, a rare chine of beef, a great dish of roasted fowl, a tart and then fruit and cheese.” Pepys was thrilled with the evening. The house looked neat and tidy with good fires in all the rooms. After eating, the women withdrew to play cards and the gentlemen went to Pepys’ chamber, because the fire in the dining room had started to smoke!

Les Mis on ice

We've just spent a glorious Sunday in the presence of Brother Edward and Sascha. 

I woke up this morning with terrible back pains. I think the process of sleeping is making the muscles around my ribs somehow go into spasm, and so once I wake up, there's no other option than to get up and take a bath because it hurts so much. Getting up at 8.30am on a Sunday is no laughing matter and I've spent the day yawning. 

In the afternoon we went to see Les Miserables (the film.) Some of it was overwhelming moving, and the cast was like a roll call of every one Nathan's ever worked with. The bit parts and ensembles were almost exclusively played by West End Wendies: Hannah Waddingham, Di Pilkington, Caroline Sheen, Jonny Barr, Katie Seacombe, Michael Jibson, Frances Rufelle. All Britsh. I felt proud. 

There was some dodgy singing from the lead men, primarily by Russell Crowe, who's opened himself up for a shed-load of potential abuse by singing really badly. It should have been the casting director's responsibility to stop that from happening, however many bums he's going to put on seats. He's just not good enough to play such a pivotal and serious role. No one cared that Pierce Brosnan was rubbish in Mamma Mia, because the film was silly and lighthearted but listening to Crowe singing "Stars" was horrific.

I was slightly disappointed with Hugh Jackman at times. His "Bring Him Home" felt throaty, strangulated and completely lacking in subtlety. There were some horridly nasal areas of Marius' voice, and Cosette had a weird bleety sheep-like vibrato.

That said, the women steal the show, and the absolute stand-out performance was Anne Hathaway, whose "I Dreamed a Dream" was close to extraordinary; one single 3-minute shot creating perhaps the most engulfingly moving cinematic experience of my life. 

We went back to Ted and Sascha's after the film to watch Dancing On Ice (from the sublime to the ridiculous) and eat the nicest raspberry souffle I've ever tasted. 

There was a shocking moment on Magic FM Radio this afternoon involving Rick Astley interviewing a somewhat frosty Helen Hunt. The conversation at one point went something like this;

Rick: So after you'd won your Oscar, I understand you gave up acting for a while?

Ms Hunt: Um? No... (thinking) I don't think so... Where did you hear that

Rick: That's odd. It says here that you gave up acting and started learning the viola...

Ms Hunt: No! What on earth? Wait...(dawning) I PLAYED Viola in Twelfth Night! 

I was so embarrassed that I had to immediately switch the radio off! 

Music and cake

We've just come third in a music quiz in Walton-On-Thames. It was a poor showing, really, but the picture round let us down big time. In fairness there were only three of us on the team, so we'd have won hands down if they'd divided all scores by the number of team members! We sat in the corner of the room like a group of Nobby No Mates wishing we'd have thought to ask someone else to join us!

One of the rounds consisted of Christmas songs, one after another, sung by those exceedingly dull 1950s crooners who, frankly, all sound the same if you don't own a single one of their albums. I don't know my Acker Bilks from my elbow. 

The rest of the day was spent at Craft and Cake with the knitting gang. The cakes were provided by Sam this week: glorious blueberry muffins. 

Kate and I decided that the majority of knitting terminology is deeply comic, and laughed like little children every time someone said "gusset", "heel flap" or "ball band." I reckon you could go to a dodgy shop in Soho, utter a special codeword, and get all of that from under the counter!

Skylon ham

We're on a tube, heading home from Waterloo, where we've been eating with Jim at the Skylon restaurant on the South Bank. What a lovely evening we've just had. 

I often find myself mourning the disappearance of the actual Skylon, which, for those who don't know, was a weird, space-aged metal tower, which became the centre-piece of the Festival of Britain on the South Bank in the early '50s.

...The Skylon standing tall and proud

The Festival of Britain was a post war "we're finally emerging from the mayhem and bleakness" exercise. All that now remains from the festival is the Royal Festival Hall, which is not a bad legacy. I'm told it was the first post war building to be listed. 

The Skylon itself was demolished when the exhibition closed. Some suggest it ended up being dumped in the Thames. So much for futurism!

We spent the day throwing more things away. I have found a second wig and a Dr Seuss-style red and white stripy hat. I have also found the majority of things that I thought had gone missing; everything, in fact, but the gum guard which prevents me from grinding my teeth in the night. It's probably the thing I need more than anything else. I woke up this morning with my teeth clenched shut, and such terrible tension in my shoulders that I could barely move my arms. Hmm.

As we threw away most of our possessions, day time television droned away in the background. It strikes me that This Morning is nothing but a ridiculous parade of adverts, and stupid packages with D-list celebrities sitting by swimming pools saying, "to enter the competition which could find you sitting by this very pool, all you have to do is call this number. Calls cost just £1.70. More if you call from a mobile." Silly competitions for silly people. 

You could ferment what is actually interesting or educational on the programme into a ten-minute show. Poor Philip and Holly. 

I was shocked by the level of ham being dished out by many of the presenters I watched today. I've never seen such a parade of prannies gurning, pouting and winking patronisingly at the camera. 

I have therefore decided to create a definitive list of the hammiest presenters on television. This list could well grow over the course of the weekend: 

1. Aggy off of "How Clean is your House" 

2. David (the Duke) Dickinson (with his mahogany face and camera asides)

3. Lorne Spicer (the Essex girl who does trashy shows about car boot sales) 

4. Tess Daley who pulls the oddest faces when Brucie makes jokes on Strictly

5. Jane McDonald, who can always be relied on to pull a Les Dawson face following a double entendre. 

I welcome other suggestions to add to the list and will update on a regular basis. Remember, we're looking for hammy presenters and not bad presenters. Being hammy is a proper skill!